


Men creating intricate rituals to touch the skin of other Men

by adanedhel



Category: Children of Húrin, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24870775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adanedhel/pseuds/adanedhel
Summary: The Gaurwaith have an arm wrestling competition.
Relationships: Beleg Cúthalion/Túrin Turambar, túrin & andróg
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Men creating intricate rituals to touch the skin of other Men

**Author's Note:**

> another short tumblr prompt :^)

“Ey come on! He’s half your age, Andróg!” Someone shouted from beside them, somewhere.

“You can beat ‘im, so old he’s goin’ soft!” Another voice shouted, and there was a round of laughter following it.

“Shut up!” Andróg barked, sweat rolling down the side of his face, and he gripped Túrin’s hand harder, “I didn’t see any of you beat him.” He grumbled, eyes fixed on Túrin in front of him.

So far neither of them had lost a single match to any of the other Gaurwaith, and of those who were present, they were the only two left on the bracket. They'd all had a bit to drink, and  _ someone _ at some point had started the arm wrestling matches. Before they knew it, everyone in the main hall was gathering together and rolling up their sleeves around a table.

Túrin and Andróg were both tough to match in strength, Túrin with his youth and stamina, and Andróg with great arms from drawing his bow. A few months ago Andróg might have been able to beat Túrin at an arm wrestle, but it seemed his arms were going soft from disuse, after all. Their eyes were deadlocked onto each other, and both of their faces were red with exertion.

Around them, the men shouted and cheered and made bets, circling around them with anticipation. Andróg puffed, and sweat, and Túrin's arm finally budged a little, bending down towards the table. He bit his lip, and took a deep breath, ready to push back with all the might he had left, when suddenly his hand was down against the table, arm pinned at a painful angle, and he yelled out in anger.

There was a mix of cheers and boos from the crowd, those that had bet on Andróg moping as they paid up their dues. Andróg huffed and stood up from the table, rubbing his elbow and scowling.

"Good match," He said, with no small amount of spite behind his voice.

Túrin just laughed, and raised a glass to him, before downing the rest of his drink, "Don't be a sore loser, Andróg, I'd say just one loss is a pretty decent record."

Someone was filling his mug again, and there was a shuffle as more men entered the room, including Beleg. He'd taken a group out for an evening scout, and they'd just returned from changing shifts.

"Beleg!" He called, raising his mug and beckoning the elf towards him, "Have an ale!"

Beleg crossed the room, and sat in the seat Andróg had just occupied, "What has you in such a good spirit, then?"

One of his men, who was significantly more drunk, came over and leaned on Túrin's shoulder, and explained, "He's got an unbeatable arm! Stronger 'an any man of us, even beat ol' Andróg."

Beleg snorted, and noticed how he stood off to the side to lick his wounded ego and drown himself in another drink.

"Any man, is that so?" He smirked, "An what about elf? It's been a long time since any contest between the two of us, could you best even I, now?"

Túrin's eyes lit up with mischief and challenge, and he rested his elbow on the table once more, his hand open. Beleg grasped his hand, and braced himself. A crowd again started to circle around the table, and they were counted back from 3 before they both flexed and pushed into each other's hands.

Túrin's bicep was red, and already burning with exhaustion from so many previous matches, and the alcohol in his blood did nothing to help, but Beleg looked almost as relaxed as ever, the defined bulge of his arm the only thing belying his effort. Beleg smiled at him, and rubbed a thumb over the back of his hand in a gesture that made Túrin's palm sweat, and he almost faltered in his grip. He clenched his eyes shut, and huffed as he tried to push harder, with every ounce of energy left in him.

He felt Beleg's foot travel up his calf, and his eyes snapped open to meet the daring look in Beleg's own. Unashamed, and apparently unnoticed by others, he played under the table, trying to break Túrin's focus. Túrin gritted his teeth, ignoring the ankle hooked around his own, took a deep breath and-- Lost.

His hand was pinned to the table so suddenly that he could only sit there, gaping.

"I got bored of going easy on you," Beleg laughed, still holding Túrin's hand, and brought it to his lips, brushing over the knuckles.

Túrin swallowed hard, and if he hadn't already been red faced from ale and effort he would have blushed. "Not fair," He started, but Beleg laughed at him again.

"Don't be a sore loser, Túrin, I'd say just one loss is a pretty decent record."


End file.
